


Chair

by westwoodandridingcrops



Series: Object(ified) [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Lapdance, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-01
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2018-04-07 01:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4245198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westwoodandridingcrops/pseuds/westwoodandridingcrops
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>We take requests on <a href="http://westwood-and-ridingcrops.tumblr.com/ask">Tumblr.</a> We'll literally write anything. Give us a go.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Chair

**Author's Note:**

> We take requests on [Tumblr.](http://westwood-and-ridingcrops.tumblr.com/ask) We'll literally write anything. Give us a go.

Sherlock’s phone buzzed.

_Stay still, Sherlock. JM_

Sherlock fidgeted in the chair, impatience prickling at his muscles and making them jump and squirm. Waiting was  _tedious_. Surely Jim knew that by now. He’d received a picture of the chair with another text two hours before.

_‘Find me. Xx. JM’_ it had read.

The chair was rich, purple velvet, newly bought, it appeared. However, the location at first threw him for a loop. He eventually identified it as an abandoned warehouse on the strand that had been for sale for months.  _Had_ been for sale.

When he arrived there was a simple note on the chair in a familiar, spindly hand.

_Sit. Stay. Good boy._

And, rolling his eyes, he’d done so.

That had been nearly half an hour ago.

Finally, he heard the long creak of the metal hanger door being slid open and closed again. There was minimal lighting everywhere but the chair, which had gentle white light surrounding it on all sides, illuminating it like some sort of angelic throne.

He called out into the dark. “Did you really buy this whole place just for this?”

Jim chuckled, “Well, not entirely. It’ll make a splendid place for… Well, just never you mind what, darling.”

“Well, I’m presuming you’ve brought me here for some purpose or another,” he sniffed. He knew exactly why Jim had done this. It was hardly their first encounter of this sort, and already his cock was twitching in interest as he imagined just what Jim had dreamed up for him today.

“Patience, impatient one,” Jim shushed.

“That makes no sense.”

Just then, Jim stepped into view, barely. Shadows played across his face as he watched, a smirk growing on his lips.

“Aren’t you just good enough to eat?” He purred.

Sherlock felt the blush even though he couldn’t see it. And, sure enough, Jim’s crooked smile widened.

Music started playing from overhead and Sherlock looked up, confused. It was club music, the type listened to expressly for the purpose of grinding up against another person. His twenties flashed before him in a lurid, cocaine colored swirl.

“What are you planning?”

Jim shook his head and stalked forward, pulling at the knot of his tie.

“Now, now. That would be telling.”

He was close now, between Sherlock’s parted legs, and he leaned forward, his hands going to the back of the chair. His breath smelled like mint and tobacco, and Sherlock craved to taste it.

His mouth was achingly close, first at his lips, then his jaw, and neck. Sherlock moved to feel contact, but the second his neck pricked with the sensation of Jim’s soft lips, the man pulled away.

“No, we mustn’t touch, Sherlock. Otherwise I’ll just have to tie you up and leave you here, and that wouldn’t be half as fun,” he tutted, pouting his lip. “Keep your hands to yourself.”

Jim stood up, pulling the scrap of silk out from his collar and tossed it aside, his fingers then slipping to the buttons of his shirt, his cuffs. Sherlock wasn’t sure when Jim’s hips started swaying to the rhythm of the music, but it was hypnotic. Blood began to thump in his ears along to the beat, as Jim continued to undress. His shirt was pulled out now and unbuttoned. Sherlock was afforded only glances of pale skin as Jim continued.

“What’s the point of this?”

“To test your limits,” Jim replied simply.

Jim’s hands started at his chest and went down, his head turned to the side. Sherlock stared at him like a man starved and clutched the velvet at the sides of the chair, determined to follow rules. Jim deftly flicked the buckle of his belt open and Sherlock could feel his mouth water at the idea of seeing Jim’s cock. It’d been weeks since their last encounter. He found himself, now, with a Pavlovian response to the clinking metal, remembering just how good, how _powerful_  it felt to take Jim Moriarty in his mouth and suck him until he was a panting, sullied mess.

Jim was moving forward now, up and on to the chair, at first one knee planted between Sherlock’s, the other planted on the outside of one of Sherlock’s legs. He was rocking into Sherlock’s thigh to the beat and he could feel Jim, hard and insistent, pressing against his muscles. One of his hands sneaked into Sherlock’s curls twisting them and pulling his head back. Jim’s mouth was again infuriatingly close to the soft flesh of his neck, but not close enough to actually touch him.

Sherlock growled in frustration, hating this game, but still hoping it wouldn’t stop. The music was reaching its peak, and Sherlock couldn’t have torn his eyes way from Jim if he’d wanted to. Jim shifted his knees around until he was properly straddling Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes flicked shut and he inhaled sharply as finally Jim’s cock was making contact with his own.  _Finally_.

“My, my. You like this don’t you? I wonder if I can make you come like this?” A voice slithered in his ear.

“Jim,” Sherlock groaned.

“I know. It’s terrible isn’t it? You’re all torn up. ‘Do I follow the rules or do I rip off his clothes and try to fuck him into the concrete?’ Is that what you want, Sherlock?”

It wasn’t hard to bring to mind the way Jim felt under him, his legs wrapped at his waist, Jim’s nails clawing red ribbons into Sherlock’s back. It was so, so easy to remember how Jim shuddered through his orgasms pulsing around him and dragging Sherlock’s own orgasm from him.

He bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted the zing of copper. It did little to relieve the ache.

“You’re so lucky I’m in a generous mood,” Jim purred.

His hips hitched up, moving more quickly and he released Sherlock’s curls before finally pressing his mouth into Sherlock’s.

The kiss was like the shot at the beginning of a race. Sherlock’s hands sprung forward to grasp at Jim’s hips, pulling them down as he arched up, seeking maximum contact through the layers of trousers and underwear that lay between them. Jim moaned, the first sign that he was just as taken by this as Sherlock was.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Come on. Show me, Sherlock. You gorgeous thing,” he praised.

Sherlock groaned and came in his pants like a school boy. The music had stopped. He clung to Jim for a moment after, his hips still rocking as he moved through the final throes of his release. He felt drowsy and relaxed, his eyes shut as he listened to his pulse slowly return to normal in his ears.  

And then, just like that he was gone. Jim’s weight was gone, replaced with a cold _whoosh_ of air. He hadn’t even come.    

He heard the hard clack of Italian loafers. “Bye-bye, Sherlock Holmes.” His voice was drifting away. “Until next time.”

Sherlock paused before getting up carefully and bending over to pick up Jim’s tie. The only evidence the man had been here at all. His pants were uncomfortably cold and sticky.  _Well, maybe not the only evidence._

Damn him to hell.

….Eventually.


End file.
